


From High Olympus Had He Stolen Light

by Tiger_Gray



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (not rape, Body Horror, Crowley owns Aziraphale, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fanart, Illustrations, M/M, Other, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Vivisection, mentions of conversion abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiger_Gray/pseuds/Tiger_Gray
Summary: When the archangels show up to threaten Aziraphale, Crowley must take drastic measures to protect his angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley
Comments: 16
Kudos: 113
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. The Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I honestly can't say enough good things about my artist. Can you believe these drawings? I just want to jump up and down every time I see them!
> 
> Please go follow this brilliant artist https://weeardo0art.tumblr.com/
> 
> As for the story, it is similar to my other Good Omens fic in one sense (that one of them is owned by the other). But I wanted to do the opposite here and play with a different dynamic between Crowley and Zira.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titles are taken from John Keats' poem, Lamia.


	2. I Dreamt I Saw Thee, Robed In Purple Flakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another absolutely jaw-dropping piece of art!
> 
> Follow my awesome artist here https://weeardo0art.tumblr.com/

baby, you have to pay in this way or another  
in this life or the next  
for as long as we've known each other  
you've been playing this game with death

\- Nicole Dollanganger, Executioner

St. James felt especially picturesque that morning, all the more so because for the first time Crowley was holding Aziraphale’s hand without care as to who might see. The early morning light struck the water before them and broke apart in a shower of gold glitter, making everything look fantastical right down to the ice-cream seller and the gardener. 

(Crowley had invented actual glitter. It looked like such innocent fun until it got all over your house and you were still finding little fragments ten years later).

Crowley sunk low on the bench he and Aziraphale always shared, the warm wooden slats at his back forcing his muscles to relax. The sun rode high in the sky, baking his bones. It made the eldritch snake inside him lift its head, slithering up his spine and climbing the branches of his ribcage as if to get as close as possible to the source of all that heat.

“Perfect, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale said. Crowley took his time to answer, too busy savoring every detail of the hand in his to form words. Perfect, manicured nails as always. Palms roughened by thousands of book restoration projects. Fingers that were ofttimes slow and methodical, but could fly through a task if the need arose. 

The flock of ducks just to their left were outlined in light as they flapped and quacked, enjoying a civil breakfast. Well, as civil as water birds got, he supposed. He watched a particular ashen-colored specimen eat of the brown bread the Russian ambassador preferred, as if the duck were out at a restaurant for a lazy morning’s meal. 

He snuck a furtive glance at his angel. He had no reason to be furtive now, but the old habits were hard to unwind and smooth out. Aziraphale looked entrancing - more than usual, even - defined by the gentle illumination. Crowley got a snapshot of memory from Before, newly fledged angels stepping free of God’s pillar of celestial fire, stretching their white wings, hair long and flowing and incandescent. 

He decided to be bold, leaning in to steal a kiss. Aziraphale made a sound between amusement and pleasure, returning it with those impossibly soft lips of his that made Crowley want to feast at Aziraphale’s mouth all day and night. He did pull away, though, not wanting to embarrass Aziraphale considering they were in public. 

Aziraphale, in fact, cast his own furtive glance around the park; Crowley could hardly blame him. They shared the same fears. It had upset him to know he’d been spied on, but Aziraphale? It was as if the other angels had taken a knife to his chest, frenching each of his ribs until they were neatly bare of flesh. To know that what amounted to his family found their relationship shameful had cut deeper than anything had a right to. 

Still, things were better than they had ever been and Crowley was bound and determined to enjoy it.

Until Aziraphale’s hand closed around his wrist like an iron shackle, hard enough that he knew it would leave bruises. Before he could say or do anything in response, Aziraphale spoke. 

“We have to get the devil out of here, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered. Immediately Crowley’s heart laced on a pair of fancy trainers and started doing laps like a gold medal runner on steroids. What could have struck Aziraphale as seriously as all that? 

“Where to?” 

Crowley asked, standing up as casually as he could manage. If they were being watched no sense in giving away the fact that they’d figured that out. He offered Aziraphale his arm, and Aziraphale rose to take it. 

“The bookshop, I should think,” Aziraphale said, as mild as a newborn lamb. They were both so used to appearing normal even when they felt anything but that Crowley hoped, if someone were following them, they would buy the illusion. 

They didn’t speak until they were safely in the Bentley, and at least then Crowley could drive at inhuman speeds; he did that all the time, not just when there was a potential emergency. It would have looked abnormal if he’d gone slow. 

“What did you see, angel?” 

Crowley asked as the wheel slipped and turned through his practiced grip.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said. He’d gone even whiter than usual until he looked like a chalk outline. 

Fuck no wonder his love was upset. Crowley’s stomach flipped; Gabriel was most assuredly up to no good. He wasn’t the type to come by for a nice cup of tea and a chat. 

He parked the Bentley outside the shop, got out, and opened the door for Aziraphale. No sooner had Aziraphale’s feet touched the pavement then Gabriel was rushing the pair of them, a bone saw in hand and a truly mad glint in his violet eyes.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s forearm and sprinted for the shop, Aziraphale keeping pace once he realized what was going on. Crowley was too worked up to make sense of what Gabriel was shouting, but the weapon made him realize Gabriel’s intentions in a much more direct fashion. He got the point and wished he hadn’t. 

The doors to the shop flung themselves open courtesy of a hasty demonic miracle. He shoved Aziraphale inside and followed at speed, slamming the doors shut again and locking them besides. Aziraphale turned, only to see Gabriel’s face right at the glass, twisted with loathing. 

“Go activate the sigils, dearest,” Aziraphale said. Crowley leaped to do as asked, finding the runes they’d hidden around the shop just in case and waking them with healthy doses of demonic magic. 

When he returned, Aziraphale was fighting Gabriel for control of the door. 

“We’ll get through your pathetic protections,” Gabriel said, his wide, staring eyes making him look unhinged. “Accept your punishment and perhaps it won’t be as bad as it will be if you resist.”

Aziraphale bared his teeth in an expression of rage Crowley didn’t think he'd ever seen on his angel’s face, and with a massive kick and powerful push he shut the door in Gabriel’s face. Gabriel hammered on the door enough to make the windows at the front of the shop shake in their frames, but the glass held. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said from where he stood near the entrance to the back room. Aziraphale jumped and whirled towards him. Crowley winced at having startled him.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, even as he felt Uriel and Michael trying to unweave his sigils. Their magic was still so easy to read, even with a Fall and six thousand years between him and them. 

“They’ll make me Fall, you know,” Aziraphale said, straightening up out of his hunched over posture. That posture was the one Gabriel often inspired in him; he’d been beaten and berated enough over the millennia to develop all manner of tics and panic reactions. 

“Oh, Zira,” Crowley whispered, coming over to take Aziraphale’s hands. For a moment it was as if they were the only two beings in the universe, the horrible sound of the angels trying to get in past their wards fading into nothingness. “I never wanted that for you. I swear to you no matter what they say, I never wanted that.”

He could all too easily imagine the angels trying to blame him for Aziraphale’s fate, to try to convince Aziraphale he’d been deceiving the angel all along. 

“It’s not your fault, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, with a tone of forgiveness and surcease that left Crowley on his knees; even he, a demon, could sense that Aziraphale was meant to be worshipped. “And perhaps I no longer find it so frightening.”

“What?” Crowley all but watched the words come out of his mouth like a tendril of seaweed, stretching the simple exclamation out for what felt like eons. 

Aziraphale turned. Slowly, deliberately, to where Michael was bashing her sword against the window on the left side of the shop. Her face had no expression any human could have interpreted and Crowley, being a demon, didn’t have a much easier time. Other than knowing she’d come here to do her Duty and Duty came before everything else. 

“Leave it!” Gabriel shouted. Crowley stayed where he was, the moment turning to something right out of Dali’s melting clocks. Aziraphale stood there like a marble pillar, unmoved though his fellows had come to do whatever cruel thing they’d thought of to their former subordinate. 

And all of it, all of it, to soothe their bruised egos. So caught up in the pain of humiliation that they never gave thought to the implications of their actions. 

_More callous than demons. At least we don’t pretend to be merciful._

Aziraphale had a straight-backed posture now, and where Crowley could see his profile he looked resigned and determined at the same time. He’d take their punishment and do it with dignity if he had to. He was stripped out of his coat and vest, but instead of appearing vulnerable he held wounded indignation around him like a king’s cloak. 

The shop itself seemed to breathe as the tension came to a boiling point, and of a sudden Crowley found himself fighting with every bit of himself for the integrity of his wards. 

He fell to his hands and knees as he had when Satan had crawled up from under the earth during Armageddon, the miasma of pure evil that had risen with Him the way CO sometimes burped up from seemingly innocuous lake waters, suffocating thousands. 

Uriel’s Grace had a sharp cutting edge and the gold in it blinded him as they warred over the ward near the window she stood at. He felt his eldritch being start to unravel, though his desperation allowed him to push back hard enough that he felt Uriel’s thorns dislodge for a moment. Aziraphale’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. 

“No, Crowley. Let them come. Don’t risk yourself.”

Aziraphale drew him to his feet and engulfed him in a tight embrace as if he were the most precious thing in all the worlds. Crowley could feel the terrible, lingering regret as Aziraphale let him go. What had happened to that lovely morning they’d so recently shared? 


	3. But Seal With Oaths, Fair God!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow this amazing artist! https://weeardo0art.tumblr.com/

With a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers, the doors to the shop opened. So polite, as if they were welcoming Newt and Anathema in for supper. Instead, Gabriel rushed in. Aziraphale held out his hand, and Gabriel stopped hard against an invisible wall of pure Grace. 

“A bone saw?” Aziraphale said, voice dripping with disdain. “Come to take my wings, have you? As if you ever could.”

“And if I can’t? Do you think that demon filth is half so powerful?”

Only when Uriel, Michael, and Sandalphon came in behind Gabriel did Crowley understand his point. Aziraphale would put up with anything these fools did. But one strike against Crowley could undo him, and then the angel. One way or another. 

He saw Aziraphale’s eyes narrow, one of the only indicators that he was looking at his sworn enemies instead of random passerby on the street outside. 

“You’d threaten him?” Aziraphale asked, with false calm. Crowley heard the black venom dripping from the words, the fury of the sort that often preceded a smiting. Gabriel completely missed it, but Sandalphon reached for the sword at his hip and Michael -

She flared up like a nuclear blast, her true form dwarfing everything and everyone around her. A whirling set of flaming rings spun at the center of her essence, and her six wings spread to their full expanse. The sheer light and Grace they gave off made Crowley whimper in agony. 

“Look away, love,” Aziraphale told him, letting him ooze back to the floor. He pressed his forehead against the carpet, the after-image of Michael’s white fire still playing on his eyelids. He felt the snap of flames igniting; Aziraphale’s sword, plucked from somewhere Other. He thought Aziraphale might respond in the same way, becoming a true angel, but he stayed in his human form. 

Crowley had to respect the sheer balls that took, to stand before God’s chief warrior and general and to do it as a chubby bookseller in a tartan bowtie. 

“Are you here to destroy me?” Aziraphale asked evenly, the bells that were Michael’s speech ricochetting off Crowley’s ears. They made his whole body shake uncontrollably until his teeth were chattering. “Have you truly become so evil you would strike down another angel because your egos are bruised? Remember what happened the last time you tried.” 

“Oh,” Gabriel said. When Crowley dared to look, Gabriel’s mouth was twisted with mockery. “I don’t have to hurt your corporation to make something stick. You’ve been lucky so far. That’s all.” 

Sandalphon’s true form made Crowley dry heave, panic welling up and making him crawl away to hide somewhere, anywhere. The smiter, the destroyer. Who could stand against that? And yet, he didn’t go so far that he couldn’t do something to help Aziraphale, though he had no idea what that would be. 

Uriel became a beam of golden light he daren’t look at, knowing she could burn him from the inside out with a thought. That she could dispense with his eternal core in moments. Aziraphale stepped between him and the other angels, the sword in his hand roiling with celestial flame. 

Gabriel stayed in his human form, just as Aziraphale had. 

“Pronounce it, then,” Aziraphale said, in a cold, low tone. 

“We entreat you to Fall, as is our right as God’s stewards,” Gabriel said, but the way he said it made Crowley think that the truth was no such thing. “Since you adore Hell so much, make your home there and never return to Heaven.”

For a moment, it was as if nothing was happening. But then Aziraphale gasped, and stumbled just a little, one single step. 

It was enough.


	4. She, Like A Moon In Wane

The angels disappeared. Crowley could think again, he could move, he could order his body to stay in human form and to some extent do as he bid. 

He rushed over to Aziraphale, and this time it was him who caught Aziraphale in an embrace. He lowered Aziraphale to the floor, heart pounding so heavily it felt like an over-eager contractor with a sledgehammer trying to take out a supporting wall. 

“It hurts,” Aziraphale whispered, fighting to stay in a sitting position. “Will I remember anything? Will I remember you?”

He asked, the words rushing out of him. Crowley despaired hearing him talk like that, as if the Fall would completely remake him into something unrecognizable.

It was a reasonable fear.

“Listen,” Crowley blurted, getting to his feet despite the toll all that angelic energy had taken on him. Annoyance at his own corporation needled him, spurring him to turn to look at the summoning circle already on the floor. The Enochian was in Aziraphale’s curly handwriting, precise and yet one could read that it had been done with a loving touch. “Rest for a minute, Aziraphale. I can do something about this.”

A half-formed sob made it out of Aziraphale’s mouth despite his strangled efforts to keep it back. Crowley closed his eyes so tight his eyelids felt like curtains drawn in an abandoned mansion, straining on their rod. 

_Can’t get distracted._

“Listen,” he said again, trying to keep his voice even. “I can’t stop the Fall. But I think I c..could change it.”

He looked at Aziraphale then, though he’d have accounted jumping into Arctic waters as a more pleasurable task. He didn’t want to witness the agony he knew was to come next. 

Aziraphale had bent double, clutching at his stomach. Feverish color brightened Aziraphale’s cheeks, and the angel reached up to untie his bowtie with hands that shook so badly he could hardly find the knot. He toed his shoes off, panting like someone with heatstroke. 

Soon, the Hellfire would eat him alive and whatever was left would call itself demon and recoil from its former angelic name. And sometimes, from everything that he’d been before. 

Even as he thought it Aziraphale’s outline blurred ever so slightly; the Fall getting ready to eat away his old self and change him irrevocably. 

_Will he remember me?_

The thought of Aziraphale’s eyes opening, taking him in, and remaining utterly blank made his knees wobble. He had to catch at a table edge to keep from landing in an inglorious heap. 

_Get to work you damned serpent, if you’d like things to end differently!_

He grabbed the chalk from where it lay beside the heavenly portal, the divine energy scrawled around its perimeter singeing his hair and sucking the moisture out of his skin. He all but ran from it, crossing to where Aziraphale still sat curled into a miserable little ball. 

He chose a spot nearby the window, the same one Michael had been doing her best to break. A little nook had been described there by the positions of the bookcases. It would do, he thought, wan moonlight pouring over him as he crouched down. He started drawing his own circle, an infernal one. He’d never been much for the old magics and rituals, so he double and then triple checked his work before moving to the next part. 

“See, when you become a demon,” he started, trying to ignore the tremor in his fingers. “You get chained. To Satan.”

Aziraphale whimpered. Crowley didn’t need otherworldly senses to hear every bit of Aziraphale’s anguish and disbelief. He had to pause for a precious second to compose himself, sharing the agony without thought or question. 

“But!” Crowley said, trying to stave off more horror from the one he adored most. “If I do this right I can give you a choice.”

Only then did he realize how his plan might sound to Aziraphale, and he had to redo his next two sigils as pure nerves made him go outside the lines like a record scratch. 

“A choice?” Aziraphale gritted, exactly like someone whose belly was full of burning sulfur. He sounded as furious as he was devastated. Crowley quailed hearing his angel talk that way, but he had to push on or there would be no choice at all. 

He got up and stepped back, inspecting the circle with a critical eye. The same way he’d assess his plants, alert for even the tiniest blemish. 

Satisfied, he turned to look at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale was sat against the support pillar furthest away (there was a limited amount of space for a second magical circle). His angel’s hair was damp with sweat, flattened to his skull. His arms were wrapped tight as a straitjacket around his middle, and silent tears were tracking down from his cloudy eyes. 

“What choice?” Aziraphale bit off the sentence, and Crowley could feel Wrath creeping up to cast everything in the bookshop in a subtle ruby light. 

Crowley drew a steadying breath and stood as tall as he could, trying to look capable and like he could handle the responsibility of what he was about to say. 

“You could belong to me instead.” 


	5. Like A Stoop'd Falcon Ere He Takes His Prey

“What?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley coughed, trying to cover up how awkward he felt. Stupid suggestion, really. How could Aziraphale ever want —

“So. Chains are unavoidable, but I have a choice of whose I wear,” Aziraphale said. He felt Aziraphale’s gaze as if it were a touch, considering him, weighing the suggestion. He went to Aziraphale’s side without consciously deciding to do so, kneeling to push Aziraphale’s poor damp hair off his brow. 

“Yes. Look -“ He tried, though it felt impossible to have a serious discussion when he was watching Aziraphale’s beautiful eyes change right before him. They were glassy and filmy, gauze drapery that nonetheless revealed nothing. 

“Look. You must know I would give you anything you wanted,” Crowley said. He knew he wouldn’t be able to change Aziraphale’s fate unless he was willing to give everything of himself, unstintingly and without hesitation. “I love you. I always have, since the day I came out of the soil of Eden to tempt Eve.”

He urged one of Aziraphale’s hands into his own. 

“Please, Aziraphale. Let me help you.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, oriented to him even though Crowley thought he must be blind while his eyes underwent their change. “I adore you. I would wear your chains even if this weren’t happening.”

The confession made Crowley bite at the knuckles of his free hand, so overwhelmed was he; he never would have expected that from Aziraphale. Yes, they’d fucked the night of the thwarted apocalypse and in more ways than one; body swapping was a lot easier once you’d been inside each other physically and spiritually. 

But had they talked about what that meant? Of course not, though Crowley ached to know where he stood. Now, he knew. 

“You’d…you’d belong to me,” Crowley repeated. He needed Aziraphale to be sure. “I could control you with those chains, if I wanted. Anyone could pass by and see my Name on you.”

“Collar and leash?” Aziraphale teased. Crowley stayed silent, confirming the words as true. “Hm. I’d like that. Highly preferable to my other choice, isn’t it?” 

“Then come with me,” Crowley said, helping Aziraphale up and supporting him on their way to the infernal circle. The Baphomet was drawn in the center, far better than Crowley’s inherent skill; something about a demon trying to render the likeness of their master made the image come out perfect every time. Even if in this drawing, a black separating line could be observed between the head and the neck. 

He helped Aziraphale out of his shirt, then laid Aziraphale down in the middle of the circle as tenderly as a new husband might treat his spouse. He wished, so desperately, that these circumstances would cease to be and his happier dreams might come to pass.

_Make this as good for him as you can. And Somebody’s sake, I hope that’s enough._

Aziraphale ragged cry as his body met the carpet made Crowley wince. He remembered what it felt like to have every joint filled with demonic fluid, to have the change twist your body and mind. Even the slightest touch had felt like being burnt alive all over again. 

“Im sorry, angel,” he whispered. He straightened and with a quick look to make sure they were both within the parameters of the circle, he manifested his claws. They were black and glossy and, more to the point, as sharp as a sushi knife. 

He opened his palm with one swift laceration. He held his hand over the sigil to his left. A couple of drops of blood hit the spellwork he’d so carefully constructed. The circle came to life, and were it not for the protections in it evil energy would have rolled out of the bookshop like carbon monoxide. Instead of being deadly for one’s body, it would have killed the human sense of right and wrong and Someone only knew the chaos that would ensue. 

The circle slammed shut like a prison cell. The heat of it at his back made Crowley feel the urge to slip into his true form, but he held back. 

That would come later. 


	6. When From This Wreathe-d Tomb Shall I Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the art just gets more and more stunning!
> 
> follow the artist https://weeardo0art.tumblr.com/

He pushed all his bitterness and hate towards the whims of the universe into the thought. He writhed, trying so hard to do the next bit that he was rutting against Aziraphale as he fought with himself, their cocks rubbing against one another in a way that made his whole body shiver with pleasure. 

He could feel his love for Aziraphale even though his essential self was fully inside Aziraphale’s ethereal core, burning as surely as Aziraphale was. He had the faint image of a serpent trying to wrap itself around a planet, the rapidly spinning core a beacon cradled in the middle of endless shining coils. 

Crowley ripped mercilessly into the barrier that kept his Love contained, six thousand years of awkwardly leaving the bookshop, of pretending the little glances and touches meant nothing, of knowing that if he were to go too far Heaven and Hell would come for them both. 

It spilled into the space where Aziraphale’s Grace had been, the space evil was grasping for with relentless, wicked-sharp talons. 

When he came back to the mundane world Aziraphale’s hand was tight around his cock, stroking. He watched as hellfire warred with his emotions, Aziraphale’s wings the battleground. Oxblood-red had taken over Aziraphale’s lesser coverts, while the flame leapt up the length of his beautiful primaries. 

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, with none of his usual reserve or hesitance. He had a look on his face not unlike the one Crowley had seen on Eve’s after she’d taken a bite of the apple. “I never…I knew, but…”

Aziraphale had felt the Love sear into his center, curling up in the empty place where his Grace had been just like a serpent in its hide. Everything, six thousand years of adoration. Crowley could see him bathe in it, the tenderness washing over the hellfire. Some of the lesser flames winked out of existence. 

“More,” Aziraphale breathed, the red creeping down to his median coverts. Crowley pulled back to get a good look at Aziraphale, thinking he looked as tempting as one of the cakes Aziraphale loved so. Aziraphale was soft and plump, over a core of steel. He felt indulgent to touch, let alone to pleasure and fuck. 

Crowley let his hands wander for a moment as the circle emitted a scorching red energy under their entwined forms, catching Aziraphale’s wrists and pinning them over Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale’s already caprine hair looked all the moreso, ruffled up curls that shone white against the dark floor. 

He took Aziraphale right then and there, opening him up with one rough thrust that froze the breath in Aziraphale’s lungs; he felt Aziraphale go stiff with some as yet to be revealed reaction. Before he could worry he’d hurt Aziraphale too much, that he’d gone too far, his angel was surging up against him. Aziraphale tangled those clever fingers in his hair, the Love in him sweet even as it was possessive. 

_He can still feel Love. Unheard of. Before me, anyway._

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, tightening up on his cock enough that when he pulled back Aziraphale almost wouldn’t let him. Who knew his angel was such a greedy slut? It was everything Crowley had ever wanted, had ever fantasized about, even if the hellfire under Aziraphale’s skin singed him when they touched.

“I have to hurt you,” Crowley whispered in Aziraphale’s ear, the words ragged thanks to the sensation of fucking Aziraphale exactly as roughly as he’d ever dreamed. Much to his surprise Aziraphale moaned at the suggestion. “Something to counter the pain of Falling. Pleasure on its own won’t be enough.”

Aziraphale shuddered through another orgasm as if to prove him wrong in the most primal way possible, and then Aziraphale wasn’t the only one moaning like a whore. 

“What will you do?”

Aziraphale murmured once he had the presence of mind to answer. Crowley watched him take in the suggestion, his head turned to the side, his red wings limp against the infernal writing, a bruise forming where his wrists were pinned. 

“Well. Falling…it burns. Doesn’t it?” 

“Terribly,” Aziraphale said, shaking and looking utterly…

 _Submissive._

“Then, something sharp? Claws? And then I can forge your chains.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him as their bodies moved together. His eyes opened wide, and then Crowley saw that a fat line of black had split the clear blue, a blue so unnaturally bright it awed Crowley to look at. The horizontal pupils unsettled even him, in contrast to Aziraphale’s kind, approachable face. 

“I trust you,” Aziraphale said. Such simple words, yet they made the bottom drop out of Crowley’s stomach; could he live up to that? 

“Well, it’s still a deal with a devil,” Crowley said, gripping Aziraphale’s shoulders such that the tips of his claws pressed into Aziraphale’s flesh. He withdrew from Aziraphale only because the urge to ride the angel’s (demon’s?) cock had overcome him, a cock still hard and wet with precome. 

He sunk down on the length, taking the time to enjoy it. Why not? Lust was a delicious sin, perhaps his favorite. He could share it with Aziraphale now, he realized, and his black heart beat all the faster. He’d never fucked another demon before, finding them repulsive at best. But Aziraphale? Aziraphale belonged to him, and the thought of their eldritch energies melding excited him so much scales started to pop up all over him; his demonic self wanted to manifest. 

Aziraphale’s moan was still that of someone largely innocent to the sins of the flesh, and Crowley found himself so far gone that he enjoyed the idea of dirtying and corrupting the angel. His angel, the Grace gathering like clouds of fireflies at Aziraphale’s lips before disappearing in the thick air blanketing the bookshop. 

So perhaps he could be forgiven for not anticipating the battle he had yet to fight.


	7. Of Love Deep Learned To The Red Heart's Core

Aziraphale screamed. Crowley recognized it. He felt it. The torment of an angel transforming. But more than that, it was the cry of someone in the grip of a mighty struggle. Aziraphale bucked under him, thereby thrusting his cock so deep into Crowley that Crowley’s scream all but matched Aziraphale’s. 

Crowley focused and opened his eyes on the other world. 

Aziraphale’s heart glowed gold in the cage of his ribs, pulsing with light and color. Waged within that struggling organ, the battle Crowley had sensed continued apace. Satan wasn’t actively trying to claim Aziraphale - and thank Someone for that, he knew he wasn’t strong enough to push back against the Lord of fucking Darkness - but still, the reaching, hungry grasp of Hell, heavy with chains, grabbed for Aziraphale’s soul all the same. 

He got to work, coming back to himself so he could interact properly with the earthly plane. Aziraphale had gripped his hips so hard he could feel the bruises, a kind of aching pain that made him bottom out on Aziraphale’s cock every time Aziraphale pushed into him. Demonic energy whipped around them, narrowing their surroundings down to the circle Crowley had drawn. 

He let his claws open the skin on Aziraphale’s shoulders, golden blood welling up and reddening Crowley’s skin in return; Aziraphale had enough Grace left to burn him. He dragged his claws straight down Aziraphale’s chest, the golden blood turning black as he went. Aziraphale gasped in a way that told him Aziraphale no longer had the air to scream or cry. He’d gone deep with his lacerations, though he couldn’t yet see bone. 

He wanted to apologize until his voice was gone, his emotions rebelling against doing something so painful to this person, the only person who made eternity worth facing. 

I can’t make a mistake. One misstep…

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. His odd eyes had laser focus; Crowley could feel that gaze on his face, like a frozen wind. “The chains. I can feel it. Hell trying to take me. Please…I don’t want that to happen.” 

“And if I have to take you apart?” Crowley said in a barely-there breath. Something about it horrified him but also made him ride Aziraphale all the harder, moaning as he tightened around the base of Aziraphale’s cock every time he sat all the way back. “If I have to reach into your ribcage and claim your heart?” 

“Can you keep me from discorporating?” 

Crowley reeled; that was not the response he expected. Aziraphale’s expression had gone still and serious, yet Aziraphale was looking at him with such an air of acceptance that Crowley felt calm in response. 

He checked himself over. The first links of the chains he was doing his best to forge locked together, red and gold shimmering and bleeding into one another. They branded his metaphysical hands, but then the Love within them cooled their fires. 

It was working. 

“I can,” he said, forcing a long length of chain into being. If he placed it correctly, Aziraphale wouldn’t discorporate as long as Crowley’s hand was on the shackle. He tightened it around Aziraphale’s neck, wincing as the links seared into Aziraphale’s ethereal being. One more light winked out, the bare area instead cloaked in demonic energy. 

Aziraphale gasped again, but this time it was for another reason: Crowley felt come pulse into him, so much that the sheer arousal it caused made Crowley drop his hand to his cock. He stroked himself as Aziraphale writhed, watching his cock fuck his fist. The tip was swollen and oh so sensitive. The length was heavy and thick with denied arousal, and touching himself with Aziraphale buried in him almost made him come right there.

He didn’t allow himself any release, however. 

He had to concentrate. 

“I thought it would be unbearable,” Aziraphale murmured, eyes wide. “I didn’t think I would make it through the change.”

Crowley held his breath. Aziraphale’s gaze made him feel seen in a way that caused both terror and ecstasy, and when Aziraphale raised a trembling hand to touch his cheek he couldn’t help but let a few tears slip free. 

“But…oh, I would burn like this a million times over.” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered. He remembered another time that he’d tendered his beloved’s name with so much desperate hope, in a pub he’d stumbled into already drunk to await the end of the world.

Crowley set his hands to either side of Aziraphale’s breast bone, his claws poised black and sleek against Aziraphale’s soft pale skin. The cuts he’d made before leaked ichor. He had to take a moment to compose himself as the chain linked their souls and filled him with a tidal wave of Love. 

Demons weren’t meant to Love. But here the two of them were, anyway. 

“Yes?” 

Crowley asked, Hell still fighting to clasp its newest prize in rotting hands. 

_Any moment now and I won’t be able to stop it._

“Do your worst,” Aziraphale said, tense under him. Crowley dug in at the permission, parting skin as easy as a serrated knife gliding through a ripe tomato. The exposed muscles fought against his hands like a nest of serpents, but he neatly clipped their heads from their bodies. 

Aziraphale convulsed, his fingers scrabbling against the floor. The only thing keeping him in his body was the chain around him, Crowley pulling it taut to keep Aziraphale’s essence contained. The sheer energy of doing violence rushed through him and he used it to forge another length of chain. 

With so much happening it took him longer than usual to notice little details. When he did, he saw horns about to sprout from the hair at Aziraphale’s temples, like sculptures being erected in an arboretum. 

_His animal is a goat, then? How fitting._

He put both hands on Aziraphale’s ribs, the ones protecting Aziraphale’s heart. They felt like the handles on an ancient ritual knife, like stag bones. Aziraphale was still breathing, heavily in fact. His face was contorted with the sheer resistance his corporation was fighting back with; the body knew that it wasn’t supposed to be opened up this way. 

Hell yawned open under them, an incomprehensible void. Luckily demons didn’t literally Fall these days, but the rest of the process remained the same. The endless well of power at the center of Hell, the power he called on for his curses, undulated like a killer whale diving for prey. 

Crowley gathered his power and his courage. They would not have Aziraphale, even if he had to do something unspeakable to be sure. 

_He’s MINE!_

He tightened his hold on Aziraphale’s ribs and _wrenched._


	8. A Gordian Shape Of Dazzling Hue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the art for this is jaw-dropping. I can't believe the work and care the artists for this big bang are putting into their work. Us writers are blessed to have them. 
> 
> follow mine: https://weeardo0art.tumblr.com/

An utterly inhuman sound came from Aziraphale’s struggling throat as his ribs opened, not unlike the fissure of Hellish energy trying to claim them both. Blood went everywhere, coating Crowley’s hands and arms and spattering his face. 

He wouldn’t admit it later, but it was the taste of that blood that wrenched an orgasm from him, as sure as he had wrenched open Aizraphale’s chest. He licked the blood from his lips, his forked tongue taking in not only the sweetness but the aroma. He drank in the sight of his claws in the depths of Aziraphale’s unprotected torso, and he came whether he wanted to or not.

Answering, fledgling demonic energy rose up and slammed into him. He reclaimed his hands quick enough to brace himself against the floor, leaving gory prints on the glossy wood. He responded in kind. Scales erupted all over him, and the rest of his corporation started to fall away. Black, living shadow took the place his mundane coverings had held only moments before. 

_Focus._

Aziraphale’s heart, still working. Black tendrils wrapped around it and Crowley could tell the infernal claiming had stabbed into the ventricles and stopped up the arteries. It chilled him as badly as any Soho winter. He had a self-conscious moment where he realized his face had changed, becoming a snake-like muzzle that could be easily compared to a skull. 

But Aziraphale didn’t flinch. Crowley could see his perfect pink lungs pulsating, desperate to get air. A tremor so powerful it almost knocked Crowley back from his charge cracked through the bookstore like God herself opening an entire world like a ripe melon, and the fight for Aziraphale’s chains truly began. 

Crowley’s wings manifested in a rush, pinned half-open by the limitations of the little corner he and Aziraphale had claimed as their own. He witnessed his limbs covered in scales, oil-slick black and bright, venomous red. The hellish energy tore into him. He might be immune to hellfire (Adam's magical fire on the M25 notwithstanding), but not to this. 

It was his turn to shout in pain, feeling the frigid touch of death as the fight threatened to unravel him completely. He thrust his hands into the gore and ichor again, reaching for Aziraphale’s heart. 

Finally, he cradled it in his palms. As if he’d flipped a switch, it was Aziraphale’s turn to come instantly. Crowley felt every bit of it, and he wondered if he’d get so full of it he’d look like a very well-fed snake indeed. 

“That’s it, love,” Aziraphale whispered, his head tilted back, his eyes all glassy again. Who could blame him? Crowley kept his hold on Aziraphale’s spirit, tying it tightly to Aziraphale’s spine. He’d be blessed if he let all of his strivings go to waste via discorporation. 

The last time Crowley had put this much effort into something, he’d stopped time. He pushed hard with his magic, fighting with the Hellish fire trying to take Aziraphale from him and bind him to Satan’s service. Aziraphale found the breath to scream once more, though it was ragged and unsustainable. It echoed in Crowley’s chest, making his heart squeeze with pain as sure as Aziraphale’s was doing in his hold. 

_Mine,_ he thought again, but this time it had every scrap of power in him behind it. _Mine. You can’t have him! He doesn’t belong to you!_

An answering pulse of malevolence tried to choke him, a poisonous cloud full of voices shrieking ‘how dare you.’ Crowley ignored it as best he could. He waited for even a millisecond’s wavering, a fissure in the stone that he could exploit, a bare patch of land untouched by a raging forest fire. Even if all he could claim at the moment was the tiniest imperfection, he would take it. 

Aziraphale’s being also went black, then red. The Grace in him had been completely devoured, and the final stage of Falling was in motion. Crowley felt Aziraphale slip from his grasp, but he didn’t act until he had no choice; he’d only get one chance at this. He found what he was looking for and flung the length of chain like cracking a whip, the lash tangling around Aziraphale’s heart. 

Crowley sat back and yanked on the chain, making its links burn deep into Aziraphale’s core. He could see Aziraphale’s face, contorted between agony and ecstasy, and Someone help him he’d never seen anything so entrancing in all his long life. 

Aziraphale’s horn nubs had elongated, becoming delicate, spiral-horns that followed the line of his temples before curving up into a point. His hair, always so reminiscent of feathers, had an extra curl so that he more closely resembled a cashmere goat. 

Studying Aziraphale’s changes distracted him for a moment from what was happening, but when the chain bit in and lodged itself in Aziraphale’s heart an answering backlash of magic came down on him hard enough that he groaned. It ebbed in the next moment, but only to where he wasn’t completely overwhelmed. 

He could feel it all, the chains around Aziraphale’s being, their red fire pushing back Hell’s influence. He’d destroyed their claim, taken Aziraphale for himself. As much as the restraints shone on Aziraphale’s being, he held the end wrapped tightly around his wrist. 

_Together._

He called on what power he had again, but this time a melded energy alighted like a falcon to its falconer. He knew it instantly; he and Aziraphale, as one. 

With such power at his disposal, it was nothing to mend Aziraphale’s chest. He took away every pain and ache he found, no matter how small, until Aziraphale was lying there, whole, with a beatific smile on his face. 

As the ritual ended, Crowley felt quite aware of how ruthlessly they’d been fucking each other through the duration. Someone’s sake, he hurt. But he’d do it a thousand times over, let himself be fucked right into oblivion and expend every scrap of will he had just to keep Aziraphale safe and sated. 

Aziraphale reached for him and pulled him down for a kiss. 

“I don’t suppose you have one more round in you?” He asked, the mischievous moue on his lips not so different from the smug look Aziraphale sometimes got when he felt he’d made his point quite well. It was just…in the open. He didn’t seem to feel the same need to hide how he felt or what he was. 

Crowley laughed. 

“For you? Anything.” 


	9. A Long Immortal Dream

Ashabelle muttered to herself as she cleared the floor in her tiny room. She’d made sure to get in trouble while her and the other kids were out digging ditches. That hadn’t been difficult; she’d watched the counselors fill in her ditches right after she’d finished too many times. She hadn’t had to fight to find something smart to say.

So she’d been banished to her cupboard of a room. Just as she’d hoped.

She pulled the spellbook Dee had given her from under her mattress. Dee swore the book changed every time something new happened in the supernatural world. Ashabelle felt more skeptical than all that, but she would truly try anything to get out of this hell. 

I wish I knew how Sunshine was, she thought, trying not to cry as she propped the book open on her bed. She fished the piece of chalk she’d stolen from under her pillow, and started to draw on the floor. I will come back to you, sweetheart. They can’t keep me here forever. 

The book had been heavily dog-eared, and Ashabelle stared at the stupid glossy cover for a moment. It had several young people on the front, meant to be teenagers but dressed how an adult imagined a teen would dress. 

Lots of wallet chains and miniskirts. 

Not for the first time, she questioned the authenticity of the book. She turned to the dog-eared spot in the middle the way Dee had told her to do. On the left, a charcoal drawing of the Baphomet. Except it was all wrong. The horns weren’t right, spiral-shaped and curving back along the length of the demon’s head. The wings were dark, dark red. 

**The incubus is a powerful and often dangerous force,** the book proclaimed. **It is essential you draw the proper summoning circle and offer the correct offerings. These are individual to the demon you wish to summon. Find the Name of Azireth within this tome and God be with you, foolish one.**

Despite her carefully cultivated skepticism, a chill shot down her spine. She looked again at the cover, letting its absurdity calm her down. She’d consider herself lucky if she managed to summon a duckling, let alone a real demon.

Still. 

She got up to retrieve the little uniform slices of sheet cake she and the other kids had to close out lunch earlier. They were worse for the wear since she’d had to smuggle them back wrapped in napkins, the white frosting smeared, the edges already going stale. She hoped the demon wouldn't mind. 

Was she really going to do this? Try and summon an actual demon? She paused, considering. But it was the only way she could escape. She knew that because she’d tried everything else. 

She shook off the memory of being taken back by force, the blinding flashlight beams piercing the stand of trees, men three times her size dragging her back by her hair, so forcibly her ankle broke as they all but ran her over the uneven ground. She’d had big bald patches on her head after that, so they’d just hacked all her hair off. 

She finished the circle. She checked, then double-checked, every sigil and line. She wasn’t too sure what she was supposed to use to ‘empower the trap,’ but blood always worked for this kind of stuff, right? 

She took the stolen razor blade from where it was stashed in her mattress, came back over to her handiwork, and opened her palm. 

A single drop of blood went smack into the center of the circle, and the whole thing flared up. It was a blue so dark it was almost black, and it burned without consuming the surroundings. One moment it flickered and crackled, revealing nothing. The second moment, a figure walked out of the heart of the fire. 

She rubbed her hands together and found her palms were clammy. A strange itch started in her scalp, and her arms and legs tingled like she’d run afoul of static electricity. The form became more defined before her, making her look up. 

The demon that emerged both was and wasn’t what she expected. He had cloven hooves, but the legs they were attached to were dressed in tailored suiting the color of graphite. He had on a striking formal jacket that he wore in a casual manner, the buttons undone. It had been crafted in a paisley pattern, the dark, scintillating blue brocade bringing out his…oh no, his eyes were indeed bright blue, but they were goat’s eyes. 

She gaped at him in shock. His white curls, long enough to have proper skeins of hair so soft it seemed impossible, made him look friendly despite his unwholesome rectangular pupils. 

The demon smoothed his button-up dress shirt, a neutral cream, and his waistcoat, powder blue. Someone had thought quite extensively about his look; he had a black bowtie on with a pin in the shape of wings, and he had several rings on his chubby fingers. When he moved, she could hear the rattle of chains. She could see them around his neck and disappearing under his clothes. They had the color of gold still hot from the forge.

But his horns were the true glory. They were fearsome, sharp as a reprimand. They curved back, rising from that wild hair like cairns against the winter skyline. They had gem-encrusted bands carved into them, bands that sparkled with a thousand little flecks of blue, red, gold, and God knew what else. They looked like stars, she thought, like the Northern Lights or the Milky Way. 

“Well,” the demon said in a clipped English accent. “I doubt you summoned me just to stare at me, yes?” 

The comment jolted her out of her reverie. 

“Yeah, I need help with something. Sir? Shit, uh. Demon lord?”

“Zira is fine, dear girl. And you?” 

“It’s Ashabelle.” 

She noted how kind his facial features were, and wondered what the hell this demon was all about. It was like looking at an upside-down cross, as if he had some good that clung to him despite being an infernal beast. 

“Zira. Oh! Uh. I brought you some cake. It’s not the best but it’s all I could get. I hope you like it? The book said you might.” 

Zira looked over the slices of dessert. He smiled an indulgent smile and sat primly on the floor. 

“It must have taken a lot of work for you to get these,” he offered, picking up a slice. “Go on. Share this with me.” 

Of course, she knew eating a meal with a demon was probably a bad idea, but…she just couldn’t resist. 

“You’re a demon,” she said, munching on the dry cake Zira was so graciously eating. “But you’re the nicest person here.”

“Ah,” he said, looking around. “What kind of place is this?” 

“It’s a, like, teen boot camp. You know, like, if someone decides you’re a bad kid they send you here. The staff treats you like shit. This one also does conversion therapy,” she said, with air quotes. “Like trying to ‘cure’ you so you’re not queer anymore.” 

Zira went from relaxed and friendly to enraged in seconds. Hellish fire crackled up his spine and along his arms. The chains glowed with energy, and his face went all stubborn and pissed off. Exactly like a goat, really. 

Thankfully she could tell he wasn’t angry with her, or she would have shit herself. He dusted his hands off as if he’d made an important decision.

“Tell me more, dear girl.”

She choked up, thinking about Sunshine. 

“M-my parents sent me here. They didn’t like that I had a girlfriend. Really didn’t like that she’s a hijabi. So I guess they’re hoping they’ll knock the queer out of me here.” 

Zira’s eyes had gone hard and fierce. She could barely look at them; they made her hear the voices of the damned, a low, pained moaning. 

“And I assume you know what kind of demon I am?”

“An incubus?” She ventured. He laughed, and some of the infernal energy dissipated as his mood stabilized. She took a deep breath; she didn't feel wrapped in too-tight chains anymore, chains crushing the breath from her. Is that what Zira’s chains felt like to him? 

“I suppose,” Zira told her, swirling his finger through the frosting left on his plate. He licked it off, and she tried not to stare. “I am a demon of Love. I know, you are probably thinking that such a thing is impossible, maybe even ridiculous. But I was born from Love. And when properly summoned, I act in defense of it.” 

“That’s what I want! Can you get me out of here? Can you do something to help me and Sunshine?”

“Mm, indeed. But we will do this my way, all right? You must agree.”

God only knew what it meant when a demon said “my way.” But what could she do? She had hardly offered him anything; she could tell he was doing her a favor because of her circumstances. 

“I agree,” she whispered. Zira stood up, adjusting his clothing, and headed for the door. 

“Right,” he said, waiting with his hand on the latch. “You have no reason to fear. Trust me. Do not leave your room until morning.”

Despite her misgivings, she did trust him. 

He left. It wasn’t long before the wailing started.


	10. To Wander As She Loves, In Liberty.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demon husbands! I can't say enough wonderful things about the art here. 
> 
> get more of my artist's work here: https://weeardo0art.tumblr.com/

Crowley and Aziraphale sat snuggled up together on the couch in Aziraphale’s flat above the bookstore, watching telly. The news didn’t bear listening to, and Crowley had his arm up to change the channel until the next story made him drop the remote instead. 

A razed piece of earth in a forest somewhere in middle America took up the screen. The camera panned over a massive scar, a burnt section where buildings had once stood. Corpses, of course, weren’t included. But Crowley’s sharp eyes could detect the bloodstains on the grass. 

“Zira,” he said slowly. “Did you do this?” 

Aziraphale’s cheeks took on a pink tone as he blushed. 

“I might have. Oh Crowley, if only you’d seen the place! You’d understand why it needed doing. That poor girl who summoned me -“

Crowley made a warding gesture and Aziraphale stopped talking.

“I’m not saying you were in the wrong. We’re fucking demons, right? This is what we do. Well, kind of.” He and Aziraphale surely weren’t traditional demons, the kind who lurked about in graveyards and took years to secure a single soul. 

He took the pile of mail from the side table and rifled through it until he came up with a yellow envelope. 

“Is this related to what you did?” 

He handed it over, and Aziraphale opened it with such care that the envelope still looked pristine afterward. Crowley watched as Aziraphale withdrew a cream-white card, printed in gold letters. 

_You are cordially invited to the joining of two souls, Ashabelle McCarthy and Sunshine Nasaar, at the Kentucky Center of the Performing Arts._

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped and Crowley couldn’t help but laugh at him a bit. Becoming a demon hadn’t made Aziraphale any less adorable. 

“Well?” Crowley prompted, stretching out so his legs were in Aziraphale’s lap. “What does it say?”

“It’s a…a wedding invitation. The young girl I spoke with. She mentioned a lover she had been forcibly separated from.”

Aziraphale wiped tears from his eyes. 

“Of course we’ll go, angel,” Crowley said, answering the unspoken. “She’s brave, inviting demons to her wedding. I like her already.” 

Aziraphale looked over and focused on him, a tremulous smile on his face. 

“Oh, thank you, my dear. I think it will be just lovely.”


End file.
